


Unusual Attitude

by Mira



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-29
Updated: 2006-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why do people keep saying we're lucky?" John asked irritably. "We were injured; that hardly strikes me as lucky."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unusual Attitude

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Lady of Asheru](http://lady-of-asheru.livejournal.com)'s birthday

  


_Unusual attitude: any attitude not required for the normal conduct of flight._

John knew of McKay before he knew McKay, not that he actually _knew_ McKay. But of all the beakers, he was the most notorious, and mention of him generated eye rolls, expectoration, and profane grunts. McKay's reputation therefore prepared John somewhat for the first time he flew him in from New Zealand. Somehow the guy had warranted a flight all to himself, and since John knew to the penny how much such a flight cost, he also knew that McKay was important.

McKay knew that, too.

 _Oh my God,_ he moaned, and John heard him vomit again. _What made you think you can fly?_ he gasped, spitting into, John hoped, a barf bag. _Jesus fucking Christ._

John knew he was a good pilot: careful, prepared, conscientious, and more than that, a natural. He loved flying more than anything else in the world, and certainly more than another human. He couldn't imagine giving it up, and he was offended that this guy, this famous and expensive scientist, was disparaging him. So if he found a layer of clear-air turbulence and flew into it occasionally, just once every couple of hours, he figured it was good practice for when he needed to fly in it for real. That it made McKay's face turn green and that it made McKay's profanity turn the air blue was perhaps only coincidental.

 _Dammit_ , John had finally roared. _I'm a Goddamn good pilot, so stop belly-aching and take some fucking Dramamine._

To John's surprise, his outburst seemed to energize McKay. His cheeks turned pink, his eyes brightened, and he managed to get back into the webbing seat, all the time bellowing about the international -- no, the _galactic_ resource John was putting in deliberate danger, and don't think McKay didn't know that.

John's crew were laughing, but apparently had turned off their mics for a moment because he couldn't hear them, which meant McKay couldn't either. John glared at his co-pilot, who raised his hands, face as red as McKay's but with laughter. In another apparently unstoppable fit of self-abuse, John twisted around in his seat so he could peer back at McKay, seated again, looking self-righteously around him at the stacks of boxes, all labeled _Property of USAF_. Wishing he had an audience, John guessed. He pulled back quickly, but not before he met McKay's eyes.

Okay, so maybe he had been a bit mean. He conferred with his co-pilot, and took the aircraft up another thousand meters. The air was smooth as silk here, and only on the lengthy descent did they pass through any more turbulence. Throughout it, McKay kept his jaw clamped shut. John found himself wanting to look back at his passenger, as if he carried a beautiful woman, not a cranky beaker with a chip on his shoulder and an ego the size of Mount Erebus.

Landing was, as always, rough, but he still heard no complaints from the back. John started to wonder if the guy had passed out or died in the bowels of the LC-130. He unstrapped himself and swung up and around, making his way past the tightly packed boxes of supplies and equipment.

McKay was still sitting in the webbing, elbows on his knees, hands on his face. "Uh. You okay?" John asked.

McKay peeked up at him through his fingers. John saw he had blue eyes, reddened and damp. "I'm gonna puke on you," McKay said hoarsely, and John took a step back. "Ha ha." He stood up, swaying slightly, and belched. "Fuck you, Major."

"My pleasure," John said. For a moment, he felt guilty at putting even an asshole through the rough ride, but then the hatch was opened and McKay began bellowing at the men and women here to unload the supplies. John stopped feeling sorry for him and started feeling sorry for the civilians stuck working with this guy. "Fuck you very much," he called cheerfully, happy to turn his back on the chaos and settle down with his paperwork.

Nice recovery, he thought later, meaning McKay's. Puke one minute, acerbic grievances the next.

* * *

 _Stall: a sudden reduction in the lift forces generated by an airfoil when the critical angle of attack for the airfoil is exceeded._

John could and did fly anything: rotor, prop, or jet, he loved them all. But in Antarctica he spent most of his time in helicopters -- in a Bell 212, occasionally in a UH-1N Huey, but mostly in his favorite, an A-Star. He ferried a lot of visitors out to the Dry Valleys in choppers, including McKay, who never seemed to recognize him. John thought that was a good thing, although he'd never been found unmemorable before. Too memorable, in fact, so it was a pleasure to be just another idiot as far as McKay was concerned.

John liked Antarctica; he really liked it. He didn't drink a lot there, and he wasn't much on socializing, but that didn't matter. He pulled his weight and didn't waste other people's time. Everyone put in long hours because they had to cram in most of a year's worth of activities in the half year of sunlight they got. He loved that, too, especially during the height of summer when the sun really never set. Everyone fell into some weird kind of zen time; you had to work on the ice's time, not on human time. John liked that best of all, to be pulled completely outside of himself. The only rules he followed were the Antarctic's, and they were simple: stay alive. Keep your passengers safe. Get back in time.

He was flying a general to the Dry Valleys in the Bell when the heat-seeking missile came after them. After ending face down in the snow but at least alive, he saw the general was completely relaxed about nearly being shot down. "Uh," John said, brushing the snow off his knees, trying not to feel stupid. "That was different."

"Hm," the general had said. A tall guy, taller than John, with gray hair and the best poker face John had come up against. "For me? Not so much."

John stared at him, wondering if that was a joke. It was the kind of thing that he would say, not generals. "Yes, sir," he finally said. He gestured toward the copter.

"Nice flying," the general said, as John buckled himself in. "Let's try not to do that again."

After that, everything seemed to happen very quickly, as if time itself had speeded up. He'd sat in that weird chair and the universe had lit up around him, glowing images hovering over his head, and through him flooded a powerful sense of _knowing_ what he was looking at, even if he didn't know how it happened. "Did I do that?" he asked, but it was a rhetorical question and the others knew it. Everyone began talking at once; they seemed both angry and excited, though McKay seemed more irritated and envious than anything else.

John didn't have a moment to himself until he flew the general back to McMurdo. When they were at last aloft, he sank into the static-y silence of flight. He loved the endless expanse of white plains in Antarctica, the nacreous clouds gleaming like pearls, the distant fire of Mount Erebus. Antarctica was even more alien than Afghanistan, and a helluva lot more peaceful.

Or it had been. Before they'd left, Dr. Weir and General O'Neill had sat him down and explained the significance of what he'd done so thoughtlessly. He hadn't permitted himself to think too deeply about it. Being told he carried some Ancient and maybe alien gene deep within him made him want to scratch his skin off. All John wanted was the anonymity of the norm. No more heroics, no more decisions, no more excitement. All he wanted to do was fly, to spend as much time in the air as he was permitted to.

But now, they asked him to be special. To acknowledge his specialness, Weir had said. Unique, except for the general, who appeared sour about the whole thing and spent a fair amount of his time juggling wads of paper while Weir spoke to John. At the end, the general had said, "Go, don't go, I don't care. But make up your Goddamn mind, Major."

He didn't speak again to John on the flight home; he appeared sunk in thought himself. That was fine with John. He had his own thoughts. If he went to this Atlantis, he probably would never return to Earth. That definitely went in the plus column. But he probably would never fly again, and that was unbearable.

He'd still be in the military, but he'd work for Doctors Weir and McKay. He liked the idea of reporting to civilians. The military had made it clear that they didn't value him, but the scientists did. That was another for the plus column.

Part of him was angry that this had happened. He didn't want to be shaken from the routine. He was the fuck-up, the smart-ass, the loser. No one had the slightest expectation of him. All he had to do was fly people around, be a glorified bus driver in the sky. And he really liked that.

But there was a part of him that knew he really was special. He was angry about Afghanistan. Stupid decisions had been made every day; he'd had to eat so much shit there, until he just couldn't, not one minute more, not when it came to the people he was responsible for and cared about. John had been told repeatedly that that was his arrogance speaking, and maybe it was. But it wasn't arrogance that had made that chair light up, or the holograms float before him. It wasn't his stubbornness, or insubordination. For once, the entire military had to acknowledge that he was special.

But that meant that he had to acknowledge it, too, and John didn't feel ready for that. He didn't know how to. He didn't know what he felt.

 _I think people who don't want to go through the Stargate are equally as wacked_ , the general had said to him coldly.

John shook his head. McMurdo was just coming into sight. Maybe he was wacked. Right now, he didn't know. He no longer knew anything about himself.

* * *

 _Spin: an aggravated stall resulting in autorotation wherein the aircraft follows a downward corkscrew path. Spins are characterized by high angle of attack, low airspeed, and high rate of descent._

"What is this?" Colonel Carter asked, poking at the mound of stuff on her plate.

"Uh," John said, trying to remember. _Food_ was the answer, but he knew it wasn't the answer she was looking for.

"Textured something," Rodney said through a mouthful. "You get used to it."

"Good," Ronon said, and Rodney and Ronon nodded at each other.

Carter poked again and then raised a cautious forkful to her nose, sniffing.

"Sam, I've got some MREs in my quarters," Rodney said suddenly, obviously realizing an opportunity. John could see Rodney's thoughts as they raced across his face: Sam doesn't like the mess hall food, Sam finds MREs preferable, Sam in his quarters, and _bingo_.

Carter said, "No thanks, McKay," and took a big bite, chewing for a while before swallowing and gulping water from her glass. "Okay," she said. "Okay, I can eat this. You should see some of the stuff Daniel has had us try." She took another bite, and John turned his laugh into a cough as Rodney deflated.

"It is popular with a number of our trading partners," Teyla said. "Made from a type of grain and legume, ground and then dried. Doctor Beckett tells us that it is high in protein, which we are sometimes in short supply of."

"Keeps well, too," Ronon added, and John wondered what stories he had to tell about finding food when he was a Runner.

During the following morning's run with Ronon, Ronon said, "McKay likes that girl. Carter."

"Yeah," John panted. Ronon's legs would always be longer than John's, and he would always be younger, and he'd probably always be stronger, which served as a great motivator to John. He focused on his pace and heart rate, glancing at his watch.

"She's pretty. Different hair."

"Yeah," John said again, and then, "Hey. You interested in Carter?"

Ronon looked at him as if John were insane. "McKay is interested in her," he said clearly, not panting at all.

"So?"

Ronon shook his head and kept running, speeding up a bit, John thought. "Hey," John said again, catching up with Ronon. "What's this about?"

"Would he go with her? Back to your planet?" Ronon stopped abruptly.

John bent over, hands on his knees, and took a deep, gasping breath. "Why would he do that?"

"If she asked him."

"First, Carter would never ask McKay in a million years. She can't stand him. Second, McKay would never leave Atlantis. This is our home."

Ronon stared at him, said, "Huh," and began running again.

"Huh," John repeated, and followed.

Showering in his quarters, he wondered what the hell that exchange was about. Ronon couldn't really think that Rodney would leave with Carter, could he? Not that Carter would ever ask. It was clear she found Rodney amusing, and tolerated him, but hell. John did, too. So did most people in Atlantis.

Elizabeth threw a kind of dinner party that night, in honor of Carter in Atlantis working with McKay on configuring the ZPMs. She had wine, good stuff, John recognized, and wished he'd dressed a bit more nicely.

Rodney had. He wore khaki trousers, a weird plaid shirt, and a sports jacket. John didn't even have a sports jacket in Atlantis; why would Rodney? At least he wasn't wearing a tie. John thought he would have had to throttle Rodney with his own tie if he had.

Beckett was dressed, too, and even Ronon wore a few more clothes than usual. Teyla was drop-dead gorgeous, in a traditional Athosian dress; John now recognized some of the designs woven into it as Ancient words.

Elizabeth had invited Cadman to the dinner, probably trying to get Beckett and her back together. She had said more than once that she thought they made a cute couple. Beckett looked nervous around Cadman, who looked unusually shy and was talking to Rodney.

When they were seated, John discovered he was between Cadman and Teyla. To Teyla's right was Rodney, and to his right was Carter. Next to Carter was Ronon, then Elizabeth at the foot of the table, and then Beckett, right next to Cadman. Boy-girl-boy, John noted, raising his eyebrow at Elizabeth's reversion to Earth etiquette, as if this were a diplomatic dinner.

Looking around the table again, though, John realized it kind of was a diplomatic occasion. But he represented the Pegasus Galaxy, and Atlantis specifically; Carter, he thought, was the lone representative from Earth. But that reminded him of Ronon's question, and he turned in his seat looking past Teyla to Rodney, who was deep in discussion with Carter. "She was a remarkable woman," he heard Rodney say. "She worked at home, kids running around, even while pregnant. She was kind of a hero to my mother. My sister's middle name is Kathleen, after her."

"After who?" John asked, knowing it was rude both to interrupt and to speak across Teyla.

"Dame Kathleen Lonsdale," Carter said. "I didn't know that about Jeannie," she said to Rodney. "She has a very impressive mind."

Rodney sat up straighter and looked simultaneously proud and offended. "Brilliant," he said. "Really, one the best minds of this generation." He looked into his wine glass and took a sip. "I guess if Dame Kathleen can raise kids and still make a significant contribution . . ."

Carter put her hand on Rodney's forearm. "Don't worry about Jeannie," she said. "She's an amazing person. You know the quality of the work she's doing for the SGC."

"Just like Lonsdale," Rodney said, looking a little happier. "You, uh, look after her? Jeannie?"

Carter smiled at him, and John sank back in his chair. Jesus. Now Carter was involved with the whole McKay family.

"Are you well, John?" Teyla asked him.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You look a bit -- absent."

He forced himself to grin cheerfully at her. "It's just weird, sitting here with you and Ronon and Carter."

"Why?"

He wasn't sure he could answer, but then Cadman said, "Colonel Carter, I'm sorry to interrupt, but what's going on in Iraq these days? I have friends serving there, but we don't get a lot of news out here."

John paid attention to Carter's answer, but he watched Rodney watch her. He wondered if Ronon was right, if Rodney would return to Earth if Carter asked him. After all, his sister was back on Earth, and working for the SGC. The three of them would make a formidable team, he knew. They could figure out anything the Ori threw at them. Or anyone else.

He drank more wine, then raised his glass to Elizabeth opposite him. _Good_ , he mouthed, and she smiled at him, and then at Ronon next to her. He realized that everyone was paired off: Ronon and Elizabeth, Beckett and Cadman, Rodney and Carter, and he was with Teyla.

John turned to look at Teyla, listening attentively to Carter's stories about a far-off war on a world she'd never visited. She was beautiful, he thought yet again. Graceful and strong; elegant and earthy; intelligent and sensitive. Perfect, really. She was his friend, and more than that, she was part of his family, the family he'd had to cross galaxies to find.

She became aware of his gaze and looked at him, her face glowing in the candles Elizabeth had set on the table. She put her hand on his and very quietly said, "You don't want to be here, do you." It wasn't a question.

He shrugged, but he felt caught out. No, he didn't. He felt disturbed by the evening, by undercurrents he couldn't catch and the strong feelings that Carter was dredging up. He squeezed her hand and said, "You know by now that I'm not much for this stuff. On Earth, in Atlantis, or anywhere."

She smiled at him. "Then let me negotiate," she said. "It is a strength of mine, I believe."

"It is, Teyla. One of your many." He felt ridiculously close to her at that moment, awkward and hesitant but grateful, too, that she was here to ground him. He impulsively leaned closer to her and whispered, "This just makes me realize how much I don't belong on Earth anymore. This really _is_ home."

She looked thoughtful, and her smile saddened. "I believe I know what you mean. I often wonder if I am still Athosian, now that Athos is no more. And if not, then what am I? Where do I belong?"

"Here," he said quickly. "With us."

"With your family," she said, surprising him. He glanced away.

"Carter," he heard Ronon say. "Why is your hair that color? You and Cadman -- is it because you're military?"

Cadman and Carter burst out laughing, as did Elizabeth. Even John smiled. He realized that the only blondes from Earth that Ronon had ever seen had been in the military.

He looked over at Carter, to see how she was taking this, and saw Rodney watching him, smiling.

* * *

 _Dive: a maneuver where the nose of the aircraft is pointed vertically down to ground._

"Get down, get down, get _down_!" John bellowed, grabbing Rodney by the back of his flak jacket and jerking him down as hard as he could. Rodney made a strangled sound, probably cursing John, but went down flat on his belly, even keeping his head down, while whispering into his mic and keeping a firm hold on his P90.

John rolled away, firing at the locals, furious at their betrayal. He knew Teyla was to his right, behind a screen of sunburnt conifers, their needles scorched a yellow brown. He had no idea where Ronon was, but hoped he was under cover and not in the crossfire.

The burst of firearms with some kind of combustible propellant had shocked Teyla and thus the entire team. She'd traded with these people before, and her father before her; they were peaceful. Well, the might have been once upon a time, John thought grimly, sighting down his weapon, but they sure weren't anymore.

Those fucking pictures of Rodney and him had somehow wound their way through the network of stargates in Pegasus and ended up in this backwater shithole. As soon as they'd walked into the village, John had known something was wrong. Mothers seized their children and hurried indoors, and the men followed quickly, some returning bearing their weird guns.

That's when John had seen the posters, nailed to a wooden wall near the well in the center of the village. Other posters and notes were tacked up, too; some kind of notice board for the village, presumably, and how handy that it was right where everyone could see John's and Rodney's faces every time they walked to the well.

A rapid burst of gunfire from his right told him Teyla was still all right. The villagers really couldn't stand up to their weapons, and certainly not to Ronon's, wherever he was, but their single-shot pistols could still maim and even kill if they got close enough.

"Fuck," he muttered. He could hear Rodney now, wriggling backwards. "Can you get to the DHD?" he whispered.

Rodney twisted his head awkwardly, trying to keep as low as possible, hiding in the thin grass. "Trying," he gasped, and kept on wriggling. John felt an irrational desire to laugh at the contortions Rodney was making, but it really wasn't funny. He rolled further away and started firing again to give Rodney cover. He couldn't see him from here; he'd gone over a slight rise and Rodney was staying down. "Teyla? Can you talk?"

"No," she breathed into his ear, so he fired again, a long burst that left his ears ringing. There was a thump next to him and Teyla's tense face. "Rodney?"

John nodded to his left. "Working his way back to the stargate. Ronon?"

She shook her head, a strand of her hair catching in the sweat on her cheek. "I lost him, and have not heard him for some time."

"Shit." He bit his lip and tried to see what was happening.

"The villagers remain just on the other side of the trees," Teyla murmured.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Okay, you take Rodney's six. I'm heading back to look for Ronon." Without looking at her, he slunk off to his left, keeping the little rise between him and the natives. "Ronon," he whispered into his mic. "Ronon, can you read me?"

Nothing. Not static or even Rodney's heavy breathing came through. The grass was a little thicker on this side; maybe it was to their north and didn't get as much sun as the dying pine trees, or maybe because it was lower the land caught more rainfall. Whatever, he was grateful for the shelter, however inadequate.

He rolled a little bit further down the rise and began crawling back the way they'd run, back toward the village. Ronon's mic was dead or lost; no use trying to reach him that way. John reminded himself that Ronon was extremely capable of taking care of himself, more so than anyone else John had ever known. His mouth was cottony and he felt grimy from crawling and sweating.

"Global warming," Rodney had joked when they first stepped through the stargate, and then insisted they all smear on his homemade, high octane sunblock. He'd even dabbed some on Ronon's nose, to Ronon's disgust and Teyla's delight. John had watched, grinning to himself. He'd caught Rodney's eye and realized that Rodney was only partially serious, that he was also poking fun at himself and his hypochondria. He kind of loved Rodney for that at the moment.

John wished he could magically rewind their time on this planet back to that moment, the moment when they were quietly laughing, looking forward to meeting these people that the Athosians had traded with for generations. Teyla said they grew a sweet and juicy fruit that she was sure even Rodney would like. Good eaten out of hand, she had said, or baked. Mmm, pie, John had said, and Ronon had nodded.

Where the hell was Ronon? John hadn't heard anything in nearly five minutes. Where were the villagers, for that matter. He came to the trail they'd followed from the stargate to the village; no one was on it. He stayed to the right of it, creeping along the ditch bordering it, moving as slowly as he could, listening as hard as he could.

Then he heard the stargate whoosh; its unmistakable sound disturbing a flock of black-and-red birds that flew over his head croaking noisily, like grackles. When he looked down from their flight path, Ronon was crawling across the trail, dragging one leg.

"Shit," John said, and grabbed him under his arms, hauling him across the trail and into the ditch. He rolled Ronon onto his back and checked his leg. Thank Christ. He wasn't bleeding heavily, but it looked painful, right above his knee. "You're gonna need some physical therapy, buddy," John said.

"Fuck," Ronon said, holding onto his leg with both hands. "Some asshole tripped and fired. Wasn't even aiming at me. Wish he'd shot off his dick instead."

"Me, too." John had pulled off Ronon's pack and had his first aid kit out. Ronon cut his trousers for John, who slapped a sterile dressing over the wound, and then wrapped a roller bandage around Ronon's thigh, making sure the pressure was firm and even. "You're lucky," he said. "It grazed your leg, didn't go through it. But it got the muscle for sure."

"Fuck," Ronon said again.

John though Ronon looked pale, and he was sweating. "Okay," he said. "Let's get the fuck off this planet." He helped Ronon up, hoping the villagers had given up. They'd taken two steps when Rodney's voice exploded in John's ear.

"Where are you? Lorne's come through; what do you need?"

"We're on the trail to the village," John said. "Backup would be great, though I think they're gone. We need a stretcher."

"We do not," Ronon said, but John ignored him.

"A stretcher?" Rodney's voice went high. "They need a stretcher," he yelled at someone, maybe Atlantis. "Where the hell is Carson?"

"Cavalry's coming," John said. He and Ronon continued to hobble on, John glancing over their shoulders toward the village every step or two. It wasn't that far to the gate; help should be here any minute.

He heard the steady thump of boots running, and looked up to see a small team of Marines jogging toward them carrying medical equipment as well as their weapons. Behind them, he saw Rodney harassing Carson like a sheepdog and his wayward sheep.

"Oh, thank God," Rodney gasped. "I thought it was you."

"Thanks, McKay," Ronon said.

"Come on, let's get the fuck out of here," John said again. Two Marines got Ronon on a stretcher despite his complaints. John gave him a look and he subsided. They began to trot toward the gate, John running backwards to watch the trail to the village.

Teyla was standing at the DHD; she had already dialed Atlantis. John heard her say, "We're coming in," when gunfire burst from their left. John knelt and began firing, yelling, "Get him back! Go through, all of you!"

"After you sir," Lorne shouted over the noise.

John rose to a crouch and then heard someone sigh, a long whistling release of breath, and then his head hurt and he was falling a very long way.

When he opened his eyes, he recognized the ceiling of Carson's infirmary and Rodney's dirty face. "You moron!" Rodney bellowed, and then, "Carson! Carson!"

"I'm right here, Rodney, now step aside. Colonel. It's good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," John tried to say, but his throat was too dry and he began to choke. Carson slid a straw between his lips and he sucked gratefully at the tepid water. "What happened?"

"Ah, bad luck, lad. We think it was a fragment of rock hit you."

"Rock?" he asked.

"Yes, rock, stone, something like that," Rodney interrupted. His face was streaked with dust and sweat, and bright red. "Those cretins didn't shoot you, thank God, but they shot the rocks near you, some kind of pumice, and it just exploded." Rodney reached out, hesitated, and then lightly touched the side of John's face. "It could have been a lot worse," he said more quietly.

"That it could," Carson said. "Now, you're going to spend the rest of the day here where I can keep an eye on you. We're re-hydrating you, but I want to make sure you don't have a concussion."

"Ronon?"

"In surgery. He was lucky, too."

"Why do people keep saying we're lucky?" John asked irritably. "We were _injured_ ; that hardly strikes me as lucky."

"Strikes you; ha. He that would pun would pick a pocket."

"Shut up, Rodney." John closed his eyes, but he could feel Rodney near him.

Carson said, "I'm going to leave you, to check on Doctor Biro and Ronon. Rodney, you really need a shower."

"In a minute," Rodney said sulkily. John heard Carson leave, and Rodney stir restlessly. He opened his eyes. The room was darker now; Carson had turned off the overhead lights. He and Rodney stared at each other for a moment, and then Rodney said, "Are you really all right? I was so -- it was scary, watching you go down like that." He swallowed, and his fingers twitched.

"I'm okay," John said. "My head hurts like a son of a bitch, but that's all. How's Ronon?"

"Biro says he'll be okay. Not much blood lost."

"Good."

"Yeah, good." Rodney hesitated and then said again, "It was scary. When you said you needed a stretcher, I thought you meant for _you_. And then I thought maybe Ronon was dead. And then you just collapsed." He took a deep breath.

"It's okay," John said, "Rodney, I'm okay."

"Yeah, I can see that." Rodney shut his eyes for a minute, took another deep breath, and opened them. "Okay. Uh, shower."

"Yeah, Good idea."

Rodney hesitated, and rested his hand on the edge of John's hospital bed. Then he left.

John closed his eyes again. His head felt as if it were going to explode, and Rodney's quiet intensity was too much. Everything was too much. He remembered the sensation of falling, and jerked awake. Carson stood next to his bed, his cool hand around John's wrist. "Pulse up a bit," he murmured. "Let me see your eyes." John braced for the piercing light, first in one eye, then the other. He groaned. "Sorry, Colonel. But you look good. And Ronon is out of surgery, and Biro is very happy with the results. So perhaps this is a good day after all."

"Any day that we don't get killed is a good day," John mumbled.

"Go to sleep," Carson said, so John did.

* * *

 _Recovery: the angle of attack of the wings decreases below the critical angle of attack._

John found Rodney spotting Ronon in the weight room. "For God's sake," Rodney said to Ronon. "Don't re-injure yourself. This is supposed to help with your _recovery_ , remember?"

"He's right," John said, making Rodney jump.

"See?" Rodney said.

Ronon rolled his eyes at John. "Don't encourage him."

"I don't think you're supposed to be working out yet," Rodney said, crossing his arms.

"Just came to check on Ronon." John sat heavily. His headache was gone, but he still felt removed from everything around him, as if he were a step or two behind.

Ronon raised his leg. "Good. Biro did a good job." John nodded. Rodney stared down at him, his arms still crossed. Ronon said, "Go. I'm through here."

"You want help back to your quarters?" John asked, rising with Ronon.

"Going to the mess hall, and no."

He was moving slowly, but without a bad limp. He really was going to be okay, John thought, and a knot of worry unwound itself.

He glanced at Rodney, and followed Ronon out of the weight room. He felt his men watching him, so he moved confidently, but more slowly than usual. Rodney felt into step with him, his arms still crossed, still looking worried. "You hungry?" John asked him. To his surprise, Rodney shook his head.

"Not just yet. Actually, I think I need some fresh air."

They walked down the corridor and then to their right, out the heavy doors, and onto balcony high above the water. The wind was fresh and sweet, and John felt more muscles relax. This was the first time he'd been outdoors since his return from the planet where he had been wounded. He leaned against the balcony railing and looked out over the water. The wind rushing up from the base of the tower pushed at him, so he spread his arms and let it shove him back a step. He laughed.

Rodney also leaned against the railing, on his side, and looked at John. For the first time since their return, he was smiling. Sadly, but still, a smile. "Thanks," John said suddenly.

"For?"

"For getting back to the gate safely. For remembering all your training. For getting Lorne out there, and Ronon and me back."

Rodney lifted his chin, but his cheeks flushed slightly in the wind. "Of course," he said. "Uh, thank you. For that. And for not, you know, dying."

John nudged his elbow. "Like I'd die on you. Leave the city to your hands? I don't think so."

"What? I could -- are you joking? You're joking. Good. Well, just don't. Die. Some of us might miss you."

"Some of you."

"Some of us. As in, me. I might. Miss you."

John felt a smile grow. He gingerly scratched his head, around where the rock had hit. "Thanks," he said. "I'd miss you, too."

"A lot," Rodney said confidently. "Who would save the city?"

"Smartest man in two galaxies," John agreed. They turned to face the ocean, and John felt the last tightness in his heart leave. The brilliant sunshine, the sparkling ocean, the wind in his face made him happy, as if the wind had blown everything bad away. Next to him, Rodney was warm, leaning slightly against him, smiling to himself. "Seriously, Rodney. You did good. Thank you."

"Stop saying that," Rodney said, but he didn't sound upset or angry. "Of course I'd do that. For you. Just -- you know. Expect it from me."

"Okay." John licked his lips, and said, "Uh."

Rodney said, "Oh for God's sake." He pushed his face against John's and kissed him, forcefully, almost fiercely, and kind of messily. John kissed him back and in a few seconds they'd lined up their bodies and faces and hands until it developed into a comfortable kiss, and then a passionate kiss. John felt his heart speed up and thought: Carson will kill me. But then he thought: Who cares?

Rodney said, "Shut up," and kissed him harder, shoving against John's body. "Jesus, I've wanted to do this for _ever_."

John laughed, wrapping his arms around Rodney's sturdy body. "When's forever?"

"When you sat down in that fucking chair. First you survive the drones, then you light up the whole Goddamn universe, and then you ask me to join your team, and then you, you're, you're just --" He kissed John again. He felt lightheaded, but not in the sick way he had after being hit in the head. This felt pleasant and exciting and comfortable all at once.

"I dunno how much I'm up for right now," he said in a few minutes, leaning against Rodney's shoulder.

"That's okay. I need a little time to get used to the idea myself."

"You? A genius like you?"

"Shut up." He kissed John again. "You're supposed to be resting. I heard Carson tell you that."

"Yup."

"Well. You look tired to me. Maybe you should rest."

"Maybe I should."

"Right. Right. Then I'll uh, help you back. To your quarters."

John closed his eyes again, not because his head hurt or he was frightened about Ronon, or angry at the assholes shooting at them, but because he wanted to open them and find Rodney there looking impatiently at him, chivvying him back to his quarters.

He opened his eyes. Rodney stood there, his face very near John's, his brow furrowed with concern. "Hey," he said softly, and Rodney's face relaxed.

"Hey," he replied. He kissed John again, a sweet and gentle kiss, then took his elbow and ushered him off the balcony and back into the corridors of Atlantis. As they walked, John felt the world shift and re-center itself, as if he'd pulled out of a difficult maneuver, something that had been beyond his abilities and yet somehow he'd managed. This wasn't normal, he thought. It wasn't normal conduct for him, and on Earth, in his military, it wasn't acceptable. But here, in Atlantis, in this new galaxy, he needed new ways to survive.

Rodney's hand on his elbow was warm and comforting, just like Rodney with his blustery intensity. But John knew he could trust Rodney. He was reliable, and had become familiar.

The Air Force had told John that he needed to make serious attitude adjustments if he was going to survive. John grinned to himself as they neared his quarters. "Okay," he murmured. Rodney looked at him. The doors slid open and they paused before stepping over the threshold. He'd made a nice recovery, he thought, from those days.

The doors slid closed behind them. Rodney smiled. John smiled back, and kissed him.

  


  



End file.
